


It's About Time, Don't You Think

by WaywardSpark



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: About Time Fusion, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Background Case, Bars and Pubs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Magical Realism, Movie Fusion, Not Beta Read, Pining, Pining John, Romantic Comedy, Time Travel, time travelling John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-03-18 08:09:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13677714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardSpark/pseuds/WaywardSpark
Summary: If you were to ask Sherlock Holmes where he and John Watson met for the first time, he would confidently be able to tell you Lab room 2, St Bart's Hospital, London, 29th of January 2010 at 11:47 in the morning.For John Watson, it's an entirely different story





	1. Chapter 1

If you were to ask Sherlock Holmes the first time he and John Watson met, he would confidently be able to tell you Lab room 2, St Bart's Hospital, London, 29th of January 2010 at 11:47 in the morning. 

If you were to ask John Watson the same question, he would panic briefly, pausing for thought, before remembering that he was still in the timeline where they met at St. Barts, and tell you exactly that.

In reality, they first met at a club in Soho, 25th April 2003. 

~

The dance floor was crowded with bodies, a tangle of limbs and movement as the music pulsed around them, the melody barely discernable over the chaos. Some had arrived in packs, including a group of women clearly on a hen-do, whereas others arrived in couples, who danced so close to one another that the expression 'glued by the hip' would be an understatement. Some had arrived alone, but found themselves a fellow loner, or maybe even two, to dance with. John Watson did come with a friend, another doctor, but was since left alone to drown his bitterness and loneliness in whiskey, sat at the bar while his friend was at the flat of a girl he'd managed to pull. He wondered if it was even worth staying much longer or if he should just go home and maybe watch some crap telly before falling asleep. Travelling back in time to make the choice not to come was pointless - staying at home wouldn't have been any more interesting.

Just as he was about to leave, out of the corner of his eye he saw a man freeing himself from the dancing crowd and making his way over to the bar, sighing in relief as he took his seat next to John. He was breathless and flushed, his otherwise-pale skin gleaming in the pink and purple and blue lights with sweat and his dark curls were stuck to his forehead. But he was grinning, pale eyes gleaming as his breathing steadied. 

John was fairly sure that this was the most beautiful man he'd ever seen in his life, and the sign from the universe he needed to stay in the club. He leaned across so that the man could hear him properly, then spoke, half yelling:

“What was a guy handsome as you doing dancing alone?” John asked, displaying his most charming, most 'I'm harmless, come talk to me' smile. He knew it was incredibly cheesy, possibly the least original pick-up line out there, but one benefit of time travel was that the option to undo mistakes made him incredibly confident, bordering on hubris, when using pick-up lines on people. Particularly very beautiful people. 

The man smiled, his flushed face becoming pinker, which delighted John no end. "I'm celebrating," he replied, his voice a low rumble with a clear public-school diction. He was clearly out of John's league, something untouchable whose legs, crossed elegantly, went on for miles. "Three months clean."

"Oh, wow." John raised his eyebrows in surprise, but his smile persisted. "Congratulations. I don't suppose I could join you in your celebrations?"

"By all means." Sherlock gestured near him, and John shuffled closer.

"I'm John Watson, by the way." He offered his hand out to the man for him to shake, which he willingly accepted, his (full, pink) lips curled upwards into a smile as his considerably larger hand enveloped his.

"Sherlock Holmes." Lord, his name was as posh and exotic as the man himself. 

John's smile grew. "So. Three months. That must have been difficult."

"You don't know that. You don't even know what I am clean from," Sherlock pointed out, an eyebrow raised coolly.

"I don't need to. That's your business. Any kind of addiction is difficult to move away from."

"Cocaine."

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm three months clean of cocaine." The man shrugged. "I don't care who knows. The fact is I no longer need it. I believe I have a right to boast about it in front of strangers."

John chuckled, his determination to stay and talk to this man unshaken. "That, you do. So, in celebration, may I buy you a drink?"

"Just water, please. Can't stand alcohol. Vile stuff."

John tried his luck as he gave a snort. "Seems rather ironic."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you don't like alcohol, and yet - y'know." 

"And yet I would willingly inject myself with a considerably more dangerous substance?" Sherlock finished for him, seemingly unbothered, though his voice took up a defensive edge to it. "You do realise that there are ten times more alcohol-related deaths per year than cocaine?"

"Yeah, because so few people are actually stupid enough to do cocaine."

This was apparently where Sherlock drew the line. His face at first contorted into a sad frown, then as he seemed to recollect himself, he scowled, something that made ice-cold regret land heavily in the pit of John's stomach.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean - "

"I'd best get back out there," Sherlock muttered, then abandoned his seat to join the other dancers, and he was soon lost to the crowd. 

_Step 1: Realise you’ve buggered everything up, and decide that this buggering up is worth fixing._

Great job, Watson, he thought bitterly to himself as he chugged back the last of his drink. Of course he wanted to fix this. Why would he give up on a chance with the strangest, most beautiful man he’d ever met over a simple matter such as a conversation got wrong

_Step 2: Find a dark, enclosed room. Any wardrobe or supply closet will do._

Luckily, there was a supply closet nearby, marked by a ‘staff-only door’ and thankfully free of any couples who may have wanted to use the space for less important purposes.

_Step 3: Clench your fists, close your eyes, and think back to the time you want to go back to. Maybe arrive a good few minutes before, giving you plenty of time to prepare_

He thought back to sitting on his stool, feeling miserable and sorry for himself, before Sherlock Holmes approached him, before he opened his mouth and drew John into the most interesting conversation of his life.

~  
John came out of the supply closet and took his seat. He decided not to drink that last whiskey - the last time it had made him blunt and unthinking, which he absolutely did not need. Then Sherlock took his seat. To John’s relief, after that everything was consistent; Sherlock's dishevelled appearance, the low swoop in John's stomach as his eyes were drawn to Sherlock like a magnet, the proud flush when John used his pick up line (the same one he had used before. If it ain't broke, et cetera, et cetera...)

"So, in celebration, may I buy you a drink?"

"Just water, please. Can't stand alcohol. Vile stuff."

This time, he said, "Oh, I agree. Terrible habit, drinking." John paired this with a well-timed swig of his own drink which made Sherlock laugh (John smiled in turn, is heart skipping in triumph at getting to hear this man laugh.)

"Well, I suppose you should know, Doctor," Sherlock purred, and John couldn't tell if he was more surprised and slightly worried that this stranger knew that about him, or if he was more aroused at the way Sherlock spoke his title, his mouth shaping around the word as though savouring it. 

"How - how did you - "

"Your reaction when I told you about my old addiction says you've had medical training, or at least trained to be objective when dealing with medical issues - and the ink on your hand says you do a lot of writing - probably for prescriptions."

"I could be a therapist."

"You seem like a smart man. Being a therapist would be a waste of your intellect."

John unintentionally gave a bark of laughter. "I'm sorry. Me? Smart? This coming from you, the guy who figured out what my job was just from looking at me?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Intelligence is measured in many different ways."

"And how would you measure mine?"

"I'm tolerating your company rather a lot. Either you're more intelligent than most people, whose company I abhor, or the dancing must have affected my judgement rather a lot."

John hummed in thought. "Let's hope it's the former one then."

"Indeed."

John ordered Sherlock's drink, then asked. "So can you do that with everyone?"

"What?"

"Knowing what their jobs are."

"Oh, I can do much more than that," Sherlock replied confidently. "The state of someone's marriage, for example. The addictions they've been hiding from their family. How many siblings they have. Affairs, scandals, crimes. It's surprising how common these people are. People who hide things."

Sharp fear poked at him slightly as he wondered if Sherlock could possibly know about his gift (and John’s father had been adamant that no one should ever, ever, ever find out about the gift. Ever. The Watson men had been keeping this secret for generations, and the last thing they needed was to get experimented on by some crackhead government officials or to be dishing out favours every day, as he had put it). He covered this up with a flirtatious smile, his eyes roaming up and down Sherlock’s body. “So what secrets am I hiding from you?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but then smiled when he settled on a conclusion; "You are delightfully ordinary and scandal-free. Openly bisexual. One younger sibling. Working in a hospital, though you're thinking of training to become an army doctor. And since your friend abandoned you for a girl who almost definitely has a mild STI, you are in very much need of some company."

"Well, since you're offering - wait, what's that about the STI?"

"It's fine. Your friend is a doctor too, isn't he? He'll use the necessary amount of protection. At least I'd hope so. Otherwise, I'd be very concerned about the state of the NHS."

"You and me both.” John shook the thought out of his head. Back to flirting. “So, what was that about company?" 

"Ah yes. Well, we can stay here drinking. Or we can go up and dance, but you almost definitely lack any kind of coordination - "

"Oi!"

"- Or we can go out and have dinner."

John blinked in surprise. Apparently, it only took one travel back in time to fix the conversation completely and make Sherlock want to have dinner. Sherlock, who was far beyond his league. He smiled."Dinner?"

"Yes, Dinner. A nice little spot around the corner. Italian. A lot quieter and we can talk to each other without shouting." Sherlock explained in a nervous rush, something which John found too endearing to say no to.

"That's always a bonus. Alright.” John stood up, grabbing his coat. “Let's go and get dinner."

~

They arrived at Angelos, having walked there from the club. When they came inside, Sherlock greeted one of the staff there personally (Billy, he said his name was) before they sat down. It was true, the restaurant was a lot quieter, with clearer lighting that didn’t flash and move around the room, which overall suddenly made the whole thing more...intimate. Like whatever veil existed in the club, that gave John his confidence and Sherlock his mysterious, ethereal demeanour was suddenly gone, leaving them both exposed to the other’s sight.

John didn’t mind so much because now he could see Sherlock for who he was. A man, skinny from a history of drug abuse, barely out of university, it looked like, and - holy shit - wearing eyeliner, smudged by sweat from his dancing. Undoubtedly, reassuringly, pleasantly human.

Sherlock smirked at John’s staring from behind his menu. “Anything here that interests you?”

 _Just you._ “Uh - well, I can’t say I’m particularly hungry for a big meal. Maybe just that prawn dish thing there?”

“Mmh. Good choice.”

“So you come here often then?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, possibly to answer, probably to point out the cliche nature of what John just said, but was interrupted as a man with long hair tied in a ponytail and a beard came out of the kitchens.

“Sherlock! Good to see you.” He shook his hand, which Sherlock returned. “Anything you want, on the house. Free, for you and for your date.” 

Sherlock turned back to John. “John, this is Angelo. My...an old colleague of mine.”

“Colleague,” Angelo chuckled. _Please don’t be an ex-boyfriend._ “This man got me off a murder charge last year.”

“By proving that he was robbing houses at the same time as the murder took place.”

“Could’a gone to prison if it weren’t for him.”

“He did go to prison,” Sherlock said drily, which John snickered at slightly, still staring in amazement at Sherlock. “Just got out then?”

“Yup. Just waiter-ing here at the moment - it’s my dad’s business, you see. He’s the only one who seems to be willing to hire someone with a criminal record.” Angelo said lightly. “Anyway, what is it you fellas will be ordering?”

Angelo scribbled down their orders before leaving John and Sherlock alone. John spoke first. “So. What is it you do exactly for a living? Lawyer? Detective?”

“‘Lawyer’,” Sherlock repeated with a scoff. “No. I don’t have a name for what I do yet, but essentially I’m a detective.”

“Essentially? What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t work for the police. I help them out on the occasion they need it - which is almost always - and I also take private clients on occasion in exchange for money. Angelo Senior was one of them.”

“Right. Wow.” John stared in awe at Sherlock. “That’s pretty amazing. So that’s why you can do the whole reading people thing.”

“Deductions. Yes.” 

“It probably makes dating pretty easy too. You can tell who’s a weirdo and who isn’t, on sight.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never done dating before.”

John’s mouth fell open slightly, incredulous. “Come on. Seriously? A guy like you?”

“Many have found my personality to be abrasive,” Sherlock shrugged. 

“So you don’t..?”

“Don’t what?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t know.” Sherlock did. He absolutely did. He was smirking mischievously, knowing full well what John was tiptoeing around.

“Have girlfriends. Or boyfriends.”

“Girlfriends aren’t exactly my area. I don’t think I’ve technically had a boyfriend before, unless a fellow student who gives you blowjobs in exchange for tutoring them counts?”

John blushed and cleared his throat. “No. That doesn’t count.”

“Yes, I thought so,” Sherlock said this as though John had just confirmed a minor rule detail on Monopoly, not as though they just talked about blowjobs. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Ever the British man, John Watson.”

“Excuse me for wanting to have an appropriate conversation in public.”

“Well, what would you have us talk about instead?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Politics? The weather?”

“Why don’t we start with you, instead. You seem to know everything about me.”

“Hardly everything. You’re not an entirely open book you know.”

“Thank god,” John grinned, only half-joking. “So. How old are you?”

“25. You’re a little older than me, aren’t you?”

“I’m 29, so yeah. Did you go to uni?”

“Yes. Cambridge, studying chemistry.” Of course. “You studied medicine in…” Sherlock’s blue-green eyes darted across his face. “London?”

“Yes, exactly. Any siblings?”

“One pain in the arse older brother.”

“Ah. I have a pain in the arse younger sister,” he chuckled. “She’s a playwright.”

“Written any good ones?” 

He pressed his lips together, contemplative. “The first ones were successful. Good reviews, got in quite a bit of cash. She’s been a bit down on her luck lately, mostly living off her wife’s salary.” John brightened up a bit. “But she actually has a show open now. Critics are there, so hopefully, if she gets a good review, everything will turn around.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

John exhaled. “It’s back to square one. Drinking every morning while she sits struggling at her typewriter, with a temper that could scare the Queen.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Who the hell has a typewriter nowadays?”

“My sister apparently. She says it inspires her. I think it’s just her splashing out spare cash on unnecessary shit.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Understandable. My brother tends to buy unnecessary things too. Umbrellas. Three-piece suits that all look the same.” Sherlock pulled a face in disdain. “The difference is he isn’t a struggling playwright and can actually afford all those things.”

“Right. Though that’s a bit hypocritical of you, Mr Dolce and Gabbana shirt.” John nodded at the purple shirt straining across Sherlock’s chest. (John wanted to send roses to whoever designed that shirt)

“It’s Westwood,” Sherlock protested haughtily, which made John laugh.

“Wrong thing to be focusing on, but sure. Relax. You suit it.”

Sherlock smiled. “Good. I was rather hoping it did when I bought it.”

“You’re a bit cocky, aren’t you?”

Sherlock’s smile fell for the second time that evening, but he nodded, feigning carelessness. (John in equal parts wanted to pull him in for a hug and punch anyone who dared to insult Sherlock before then. Including himself, as a result of his first fuck up, but such is the way life is when you have experienced a million scenarios with a million embarrassing mistakes.) “You can probably see why I don’t date, can’t you?”

John shook his head, honestly, reassuringly. “Actually, I can’t.”

~

Many hours later, long after the food was cleared away, they were still sitting and chatting without pause, sipping on their drinks (water for both. John needed to sober up after drinking the same glass of whiskey twice), the restaurant kept open just for those two. John could only assume that it was out of the favour Angelo owed Sherlock they were allowed to stay there for so long. Even so, John didn’t want to push his luck. As he was laughing at another one of Sherlock’s anecdotes (a failed chemistry experiment from when he was ten), he made a show of looking at his watch and widening his eyes. 

“Christ, it’s late. I have work tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Sherlock seemed as disappointed as John. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Where are you heading? We could share a cab. If there are any.”

“It’s just a fifteen-minute walk from here.”

“Oh, that’s good. I’ll walk you home, then?”  
Sherlock agreed. John got his coat, discreetly leaving a ten-pound note as a tip to make up for their inconvenience, and walked out of the restaurant with Sherlock in front of him, leading the way.

Sure enough, there weren’t any cabs passing them. The streets were pretty much silent, with the exception of some distant cars and sirens, and Sherlock and John’s own voices, pitched low to save neighbours from disturbances as their giggles came out like whispers.

They came up to the door outside Sherlock’s flat, and they just stood there, Sherlock not moving to unlock the door, and John hovering.

“Well. I really enjoyed spending time with you,” John spoke eventually.

“Me too,” Sherlock smiled. 

“I was wondering if I could get your numb - “

“Would you like to come up?” Sherlock asked at the same time, before they both paused, both equally surprised and giddy. 

“Oh, yes. My number. I can - “

“How about we save that until later.”

“Later. Yes,” Sherlock said breathlessly, as flushed as he was when they first met as he opened the door to his apartment. “Wait, what about your work tomorrow?”

“Fuck work,” John murmured, as he crowded Sherlock against the wall, closing the door behind him.

John was delighted to discover later that Sherlock had the same ecstatic look on his face after sex as he did after dancing. 

~  
The next morning John woke to the sound of his phone ringing, the weight of Sherlock’s arm thrown across his stomach. He groaned as he reached blindly for the floor, trying to find his trousers where he kept his phone. He found it soon enough and answered it. “Hello?” He croaked.

“Johnny!” John immediately sat up at the sound of his sister’s voice, which was hysterical and hoarse, as though she had been crying. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve been sleeping. You okay?”  
“No. Have you seen the paper this morning? They’ve published reviews already.”

“Oh god. What did they say?”

Harry sobbed. “They came on a bad day. Mark forgot his lines. You know how stubborn he was in rehearsal, how he kept saying shit like ‘I’m the experienced actor among us, you just focus on your own lines before worrying about mine’. Like doing soap operas gives him any more credibility.”

“Arsehole.”

“I know! And normally I let it slide because he did remember his lines, despite turning up to half the rehearsals. But nooooo, today he had to fucking forget! There were ten minutes of complete silence. Ten minutes!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Harry.”

“And the props were in the wrong place. We had to have a stage fight with pens. Pens!”

“But they liked the writing, right?”

“Nope. The audience was so focused on the cock-ups they couldn’t care less about the semantic field of water running throughout the play, or the subtext on discrimination against immigrants, or even the twist at the end that the main character’s best friend was actually a ghost all along.”

“But you worked so hard on that part!”

“I know,” Harry sniffed. “Back to the drawing boards, I guess. There’ll probably be five, six more performances. Fuck, what am I going to do? I can’t live off my wife’s money my whole life. Shit, we’ll have to sell the house, won’t we?”

“Harry, no, stop. I’ll fix this.”

“How? What are you going to do, bribe the critics into being nice? Offer them a handjob to undo the damage? It’s too late. The bloody Times were there. I’m ruined.”

“Sssh, it’s fine. Just...sit tight, okay?”

“Okay. I have to go. Clara’s come back from the shop with ice cream. Love you.”

“Love you too.” Harry hung up and John put down his phone, sighing while a plan was already forming in his head. He turned to Sherlock next to him, who was wide awake as he lay facing John, his hair wild and fluffy against the pillow. 

“Who was that?” He asked softly.

“My sister. The critics - well, she’s upset about what they said. I have to - she’ll need me with her.” It wasn’t technically a lie. Harry would want John there. Just because he wasn’t technically going to be with her in that moment, it didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

Sherlock looked disappointed, but he gave an encouraging smile. “Go.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to just - and after last night - “

“Relax, I gave you my phone number shortly before you fell asleep. It’s not like we won’t see each other again, or it was just a one night stand.”

John smiled and leaned over to kiss Sherlock gratefully, which he eagerly accepted. Sherlock was right, they will see each other again. It’s just that only John would be aware that this would be a do-over of their first meeting. He didn’t mind too much: as long as he could get back from the theatre in time to meet Sherlock at the club, chat him up again, take him to dinner, and have another round of spectacular sex, everything would be back on track. He pulled away before he could become too distracted and started gathering up his clothes. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“See you soon.” As John left to use the bathroom, he saw out of the corner of his eye Sherlock settle back down to sleep, his eyeliner smudged around his eyes. His heart melted a little at the sight.

Once dressed and clean and prepared with a plan, he went home, climbed into his wardrobe, and cast himself back to yesterday evening, a couple of hours before the play would have started. 

~

John managed to sneak into the backstage area (and by sneak in, he actually played the ‘brother of the playwright card’ so he could walk in backstage with the guard’s willing permission), making his way down corridors until he found the dressing room with Mark’s name on it. He knocked on the door. 

“Come in,” an impatient voice demanded from within, which John obeyed. When he entered, the actor in question was sat at his dressing room table, spiking his hair up with gel into a style he seemed at least ten years too old for.

“Excuse me, sorry. I know you’re very busy with preparation - “

“Yes, I am, what is it?” John pressed his lips together, deciding to power through and ignore the man’s temper.

“I was wondering if you’d looked at your script lately?”

“Script? Pah!” Mark gave a short burst of laughter, like a gunshot. “I’m a professional actor. I don’t need to look at my script.”

“I know, I know. But there are some rather long monologues in there, and there are critics in the audience, so I thought you’d want to be on the safe side - “

“Bugger off. I know my lines plenty. Go harass Cassandra if you want to bother someone who doesn’t know their lines.”

“Right. Sorry.”

John closed the door slightly, but left it ajar enough to hear the rustle of paper and a muttered: “oh, that’s when I come in”. He gave a satisfied grin before going off to look for the props department. It turned out that the person in charge of the swords was at home in bed with the stomach flu, so John took it upon himself to move them just before the play started. 

He stayed backstage as he made sure that the play went exactly as it was supposed to, referring only to his dim memory of the dress rehearsals he was invited to. So far, everything was going well.

And then it got to Mark’s monologue.

John waited with baited breath as Mark started speaking. Sure enough, he said his line perfectly, without so much as an awkward pause or a stutter or a filler. Still, John didn’t release his breath until he said the very last word with a final flourish, a fake tear rolling down his cheek as the audience watched on in silent awe and empathy for the character. 

But then came Cassandra.

She was suddenly silent. Pacing the stage in an attempt to seem like she was in control of the situation for far longer than John could remember in the rehearsals. Quickly grabbing a bit of cardboard next to him and the pen from an earlier scene, he scribbled down a few keywords he remembered her saying in her speech: butterfly, bend, sprinkle, tomato, easy, river. He didn’t even know what the speech was actually about, but somehow it encouraged Cassandra, as she launched into her own monologue. 

When the play finished, John breathed a sigh of relief as the cheers flooded the theatre and all the actors bowed on the stage. He escaped quickly into the foyer, walking past the audience members who were still wiping away tears and the critics, who stood in a circle murmuring praise for the subtle semantic fields and subtexts and ‘quality of the prose’. But there wasn’t time for John to celebrate. 

Running outside, he caught the first taxi, spurting out the name and address of the club. Unfortunately, in his plan to arrange a third-first meeting with Sherlock, he didn’t take into account little things like traffic, or being stuck with the oldest, slowest, most cautious taxi driver in the history of taxi drivers. By the time the cab pulled up, John was already pulling out noted from his wallets, chucking enough to pay for the ride up and with change he didn’t stop to collect. He ran out, and joined the back of the queue (he may have been in a rush, but damn it, he was British, and would always respect the queue system.) 

When he finally, finally entered the club, the crowd of dancers were still there. He wove his way through, trying to look for a tall, lean body, for a dark curl at the nape of a neck, for muscles straining under a purple shirt, but he could find none of these, no sign of Sherlock being there at all.

He finally approached the bartender. “I’m looking for a friend. Sherlock Holmes. Curly dark hair, blue eyes, cheekbones, eyeliner. You seen him?”

The bartender nodded. “Yeah, he was here earlier. Left with someone a few minutes ago, though.”

“Who?”

The bartender shrugged. “Some guy, about his age. Probably went home with him, I’d say. Sorry, mate.”

John’s plan absolutely did not account for anyone else taking interest in Sherlock, or him taking interest back. He sat down, half collapsed with exhaustion and frustration, onto the stool. “One whiskey, please.”

When he checked his phone, Sherlock’s number was gone, along with any hope of finding him again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to meet Sherlock again through questionable methods, goes to war, then a chance meeting occurs...

John knew, deep down, that what he was doing was completely, utterly, entirely, A Bit Not Good. 

He knew that he was interfering - or at least trying to - in the relationship of a man he met once (and had dinner with, and exchanged numbers with, and shagged with) for no other reason than pure selfishness. For all John knew, Sherlock could be far happier with this bloke he picked up than with John. 

He knew he was possibly even breaking the law.

However, John was a stubborn man with slightly dubious morals and a magical (no, genetic - his father had been clear on that point) ability to undo any mistake he wanted, so he’d be damned if he wasn’t at least going to try and see him.

His grand master plan was this: one day, John would be on a jog around London, as part of his fitness regime he was getting into to prepare for the army, and, coincidentally, happen to jog down the street where Sherlock lived. If he was lucky, he’d get to see Sherlock and Bar Bloke (as he now called him, with a slight bitterness) and give John closure, knowing that Sherlock was far better off without him and he could stop being a creepy stalker. If he was even luckier, he’d bump into Sherlock - hopefully with John on the more attractive side of sweaty and flushed - who, in an ideal world, would be newly single, attracted to John on sight, and strike up a conversation with him. Perhaps he’d invite him out for coffee to make up for knocking him to the ground (as would happen in this fantasy scenario), or even offer him coffee at his flat… 

Sadly, ideal scenarios rarely turn out the way that they’re meant to. 

John started jogging once a week, going down Sherlock’s street where he’d slow down just enough to look around, try and spot a head of unruly curls, or the dark coat he had seen hanging on the back of Sherlock’s door. He looked up Sherlock’s apartment building, to see if he could spot a figure at the window, but that was a bust too. 

He then decided to increase his jogging to twice, then thrice a week, to no avail.

At least he got slightly fitter because of it.

Until finally, just as he was about to accept his fate and go home, he saw Sherlock, only a few feet ahead of him on the pavement, unlocking the door to his home, his hands shaking as he put the key in the lock.

At first, John’s heart leapt, the sight of Sherlock like a breath of fresh air after so many months. From his profile, he seemed the same gorgeous, wonderful person John had met. But then he saw the way his hands shook, the rigid, defensive posture, and how thin he was: his cheekbones could have cut through glass and his shirt - god, the same purple shirt he wore the first time they met - was now hanging loosely from his toro, no longer tightly stretched across it like before. He seemed entirely different compared to the proud, relaxed man who had danced himself breathless - 

“I must say, my brother’s standards have lowered considerably if this is what he is hiring now,” Sherlock’s snappish voice interrupted John’s thoughts. 

“I’m sorry, what - “

“You’ve hardly been subtle the last few months - jogging past, always looking into my flat.” Then Sherlock turned to face John, his pale eyes glaring hotly at him. “Tell my brother that he has no right to be spying on me. I’m fine, and so is Victor.”

Victor. So Bar Bloke has a name now. John shook his head. “I don’t work for your brother.”

With that, Sherlock took only a few strides towards him then grabbed John’s arm, twisting it behind his back as he pressed him against the brick walls of the apartment building. John cried out in shock and pain (though he had hoped at one point to be pinned up against a wall, he didn't think it would be with the added risk of a sprained arm.) “Then who are you working for?” Sherlock growled. “I doubt anyone else would be so intent on watching my every move.”

“No one! I swear it! I’m just a jogger! I have a route, you know,” John spluttered out, his heart beating wildly as he wondered what the hell had happened in the last few months to make Sherlock like this. (And also, if it was weird that he was turned on a little bit.)

“A route that happens to involve you staring at this ugly building every time you passe it? A likely story,” Sherlock spat. “It doesn’t matter. Tell your boss - “ Sherlock tightened the grip on John’s arm with these words (Okay, now very turned on. And terrified.) - “That I will happily break the limbs of every jogger, every commuter, every homeless man, every lost tourist he sends out trying to keep his eye on me. You can also tell him that I’m perfectly fine and he has no reason to think about sending me back to rehab - “

“Then why are your hands shaking so much?” John retorted. Sherlock let go of John’s arm and turned him around to face him, his eyes wide with panic hidden under layers of anger, the look of an addict who had been caught out. 

“What?”

“I’m a doctor, I know these things,” John said. 

“I don’t have to explain myself to you. Or anyone.”

“What about that Victor guy of yours? Does he know?”

Sherlock glared even fiercer, but just as he was about to speak, a voice behind them spoke: “I don’t suppose I ought to be jealous of this scene, should I?”

Sherlock quickly broke away from John to face the man, allowing John a complete view of him. John guessed that this was Victor: the same age as Sherlock, as the bartender had said, with light brown curls and an eyebrow raised as his blue-green eyes took in the scene. Christ, he was perfect for Sherlock. 

“Not at all, he was just leaving. Weren’t you, doctor?” Sherlock turned to look at John, who felt forced to nod in response.

“Ah, another one of those spies then? Darling, I’ve told you to tell your brother to stop.” This Victor's voice was just as posh, with perfect intonation to match Sherlock's.

“And I’ve told you that he is utterly intransigent,” Sherlock snapped back.

“Don’t shout, love. Oh, you’re getting the shakes again. Here, we’ll get you inside and give you something for your...irritation.” Victor smiled, emphasising the last word with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Victor…” Sherlock said warningly

“Oh relax, this man couldn’t tell your brother anything if he tried. He’s like a deer in the headlights, look at him. And I’ve seen fifteen-year-old girls with more height than him.”

John rolled his eyes. “Okay, that’s my cue to leave. I promise you, however, that I’m not a spy - I’m a doctor," John turned to face Sherlock. "And as a doctor, I tell you that whatever habit you’ve gotten yourself into is not healthy and you should seek help for it immediately.”

“A rather bold assumption to make, isn’t it?” Victor laughed, undercutting whatever retort Sherlock also had. “You’ve got this all wrong, doctor. Now, why don’t you scamper off and leave me and my boyfriend in peace?”

If John was staying in this timeline, not correcting it after his complete cock-up of getting yelled at and his arm nearly broken by Sherlock, he would have lectured them, offered medical assistance, done all he could in his abilities and duty as a doctor. As it was, he had to go back - he wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of being arrested. So he jogged back to his flat, quickly took a shower, then closed his eyes and thought back to two months ago, when he first began this fourth attempt at meeting Sherlock. But instead of orchestrating a grand, romantic first meeting, he simply sat there, thinking.

John's stomach twisted at the idea of it, but he knew that Sherlock had relapsed, somehow, and that Victor knew. Victor may even have been responsible for it. It wouldn't be surprising if he was: he seemed to reek of arrogance, of control over Sherlock. John hated him with a passion.

He could go back again to the bar, try and meet Sherlock before Victor got there first, but that would mean sacrificing his sister’s success, compromising the performance that had earned her so many good reviews, doubled her fame among scriptwriters, and encouraged her to gradually sober up. He couldn’t do that to her - not when this had been her dream for so long. If he went back to help Sherlock, stopping him from relapsing, he’d simply be trading one addict to help for another. 

He could call the police, ask them as an anonymous neighbour who had spotted withdrawal symptoms from afar, but he didn’t have the evidence for them to take him seriously. 

All he could do was gather up all the relevant pamphlets from the hospital and dump them through Sherlock’s letterbox, hoping, praying, that this would be enough, for now, to save him, before deciding that he had to give up on Sherlock for good: no amount of time travel would change the fact that some things simply aren't meant to be. 

~

The next few years were a blur for John: he gained his qualification as an army doctor, went through training, continued to date other people, until he was eventually shipped out to Afghanistan. He was kept busy with his work - extracting bullets from wounds, restoring dehydrated soldiers unused to the Afghan heat back to health, making adrenaline-fueled decisions on the spot that kept him calm as he saved the lives of many. There were times where he rarely left the medical tent, swamped under by injuries - though sometimes there wasn't anything worse than particularly infected blisters to deal with. It didn't matter how busy or how exhausted he was, because it meant, for the most part, that he could forget about Sherlock. Yes, there were times where he wondered about him - whether he ever went back to rehab, if he was clean yet, if he had left Victor yet, if he had met someone new and far better for him. He thought about him with a kind of melancholy, but with little regret. As far as he could tell from his letters from Harry, she was still as happy and sober as when he left, and even writing a new play. He planned to get tickets (for free, thank god - his wages didn't always allow for luxuries such as seeing West End Plays all the time) as soon as he'd come home for leave.

In his third year of being in the army, he was made captain.

In his fourth year, he was shot. 

Later, he would wish that he was shot for a good cause, saving someone's life - a father of two perhaps, or a daughter with an elderly relative, or a nineteen-year-old with their whole life ahead of them. 

Instead, he was attending to the injuries of a man he barely knew in the regiment, who had no hope of being saved. He could have had children. He could have had a spouse, or parents, or friends. John didn't know - nor did he care in that moment. He tried to stabilise the wound, put pressure on it as he yelled for more assistance, knelt there beside the man as his hands became wet and scarlet with the other one's blood. Neither of them spoke to one another; the other soldier was too fearful, his eyes wide with the shocking reminder of his very much imminent mortality, and John was too focused on keeping the soldier alive in the sweltering hot desert heat.

Then the second round of bullets came, along with a searing pain in John's shoulder. He yelled out as he collapsed beside the man, his hand immediately going up to his shoulder to put pressure on his wound without even a thought to the other man's blood on his hands and how unsanitary that was.

He tried to sit himself up, to carry on helping the other soldier, but the pain was too much, like a weight that spread all over his chest, compressing his lungs and stomach. So instead he focussed on breathing, shakily and made hoarse by anxiety - please don't let this be it for me. Please god let me live.

His vision faded just as the man next to him stopped breathing.

~

The next couple of months were even more of a blur, the fever of work and focus now replaced with, well, an actual fever. Every so often, John would wake up in a haze, his shoulder aching and his entire body burning up. He’d see fuzzy images of panic-stricken doctors around him, barking out orders as they pumped him full of anti-bacterial drugs. _Infection,_ a vaguely aware voice in the back of his head diagnosed, only for him to fall back asleep. _Shouldn't have kept pressure on my wound._

When he finally woke up, he was exhausted and sticky with sweat but drained of infection. His arm was in a cast, and the heart monitor beat steadily next to him, a reassurance that he was okay, he was alive, he could go back to work soon. 

A soldier entered - Bill Murray, also a nurse, not the actor. John tried to smile weakly at him - he liked him, he'd go out for drinks with this one - and Bill returned it with an easy grin, but one that was full of relief.

"Christ, John, you gave us a bit of a scare, there," He said, busying himself with checking John's vitals, making notes on his clipboard. 

"How long have I - " John cleared his throat. Christ, it felt like sandpaper. " - how long have I been out?"

"Couple of months. Here, you'll need this. Slow sips." Bill passed John a cup of water with a straw, which John had to restrain himself from drinking all at once. It was cold, almost sweet in his mouth - a vast difference to the water he'd been drinking since he arrived in Afghanistan, which always quickly turned lukewarm under the Afghan sun. He put it down on the table beside him.

"Thanks. So what happened?"

"Shot in the shoulder. 38 calibre bullet. Managed to avoid any major arteries but there was some shrapnel and your bone was slightly fractured."

"Really?"

“Yup. In and out of surgery, fighting off an infection. You've been through it all. You’re a lucky man, John Watson.”

“Yeah, the fact that my shoulder is hurting like a bitch right now proves that,” John grumbled. 

“Now there’s the sarcastic John Watson we know and love," Bill chuckled. "It’s good, it shows you’re recovering.”

“Right. And how long until I recover enough to get back to work?”

Bill’s smile faltered slightly. “John, you’re a doctor. You know the nerve damage bullets in the shoulder can cause...”

“But they can be recovered from, right?” 

“We’ll see. I mean, you’ll be going through physio soon, so people can assess if you’re fit enough to get back to duty. But - “

“Good. I can wait until then.”

Bill nodded, with the same fixed smile, then walked towards the door. "Bill?"

He turned around. 

"The man I was trying to help. Did he make it?"

He pressed his lips together and shook his head. "I'm sorry, John. He was beyond saving by the time that you found him." With that, he left to visit the other patients.

John tried to reason with himself: You can't save them all, it's not your fault, you have saved so many more lives than you have lost. But that didn't stop the overwhelming wave of guilt crashing over him, stinging behind his eyes and filling his lungs like heavy tar. 

That night, he dreamt for the first time of bullets flying past him, bombs exploding by him, each step he took bringing more dangers and fatalities, but each time John was left standing. He dreamt of the man whose life he couldn't save, and all the others he had let himself forget in the chaos of war. 

~

“Captain, I think you’d better take - “

“I’m not taking another fucking break,” John grunted between gritted teeth, holding onto the bed post. “I can do this. I can walk. I was shot in the shoulder, not the bloody leg.”

“Fine, try one more time,” the doctor assisting him with his physio sighed. “But then you’ll go back to bed and rest.”

John let go of the bed frame, then slowly, slowly took a step forward. That went well, so he took another. At this point he collapsed, his knee buckling as his arm shot out to the bed frame to keep himself upright. “Fuck!”

The doctor hummed, scribbling down some notes. “Captain, you’re in the medical profession too. You know how trauma can affect the brain in strange ways - “

“I’m not a fucking trauma victim. You lot have just kept me on bed rest for too long.”

“Is that what your diagnosis would be for a patient experiencing the same symptoms as you are now?” She asked, her voice calm and patient. John hated it. “I don’t think it would be.”

John sat back down on the bed with a sigh. “So that’s it then? You give up, send me on my way to civilian life armed with a cane and dismiss me as an invalid?”

“Perhaps, If at home you show improvement, recovery from your trauma, you could apply again, but at the moment you are in no state to be back in active duty. I’m sorry, Captain.”

John winced at the title, which felt more like a mockery than a sign of respect. “Thanks.”

He was sent home later that week, to a bedsit he could barely afford on his army pension, to a therapist who did not help, and to sleepless nights spent staving off the inevitable nightmares of explosions and bullets and anarchy. 

~

He thought that seeing his sister again might be the one good thing he could get out of coming home for good - getting to see her shows on time and to support her and to beam proudly as she basked in the glow of success and happy marriage. (Because at least one of the Watson siblings had to have something good 

When John came home, after only eight months since his last leave, Harry had neither. 

He'd spent the first week with Harry, out of courtesy. He should have noticed something off about her by the bills scattered around the house, by the glasses of whiskey constantly waiting by the sink to be washed, by the dismissive hum Harry would give whenever Clara said she was off to work, buried in her messy notebook of ideas that couldn't quite form. He should have noticed by the first morning staying there. It took him three days, having been absorbed in his own loss and survivor’s guilt, while he was having breakfast with Harry.

“So,” he began awkwardly. “How’s the...what was that last play called again?”

“Doesn’t matter. No one could give a toss about it,” Harry grumbled into her coffee. “Don’t speak so loud. I’m hungover.”

“You always seem hungover nowadays, Harry.” John commented with a frown.

“Yeah, And you’re not my mother, John, so piss off.”

“Fine, I’ll leave it. Seriously, though, what happened with the play?”

“Didn’t get the attention I wanted. Critics called it a shit bit of writing. ‘One-Trick Watson’. That was the Guardian’s opinion. Apparently I’m repetitive. Boring. It was nothing to do with the actors. Nothing to do with the set or the director or anything. Just me.”

“Well, you can’t win them all. Try again with the next one, eh?” 

“If I can write another one. Because Jesus Fucking Christ why can’t the words just work?!” Harry ruffled her hands through her hair, groaning in frustration. “Nothing is working. I have no ideas. No opening lines. I can’t even think of a character.”

“So that’s why you’ve barely been talking to anyone?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I can’t talk and concentrate at the same time. Trust me, this always happens. I’ll go radio silent for two, three days, and then just like that I have an idea. This one is just taking a little longer to appear.”

“Write about...your own life experiences?”

Harry rolled her eyes. “That’s only for successful playwrights, John. The ones who have a right to be narcissistic. What am I exactly? Just a lesbian with a drinking problem, according to my brother.”

“According to most people, you have a drinking problem,” John snapped back. “Clara is worried too. I can tell.”

“She should be able to tell me. She’s my wife.”

“It’s not like you’re very open for communication at the moment.”

Harry made a frustrated noise at the back of her throat. “Fine. You want to gossip? Want to see how badly my life is falling apart just because yours has...hit the fan? My writing is a joke. I’m a fraud. I’m drinking most evenings. Clara and I barely speak to each other. We rarely even sleep in the same bed. Happy now?”

John opened his mouth to speak, to find the right word to say, but faltered. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interfered.”

“I know. It’s fine.” Harry sighed. “This really isn’t the best place for you to be staying, Johnny. Negative vibes and all that.”

“Well, I don’t want to be staying in that bedsit for anymore than I have to. But you’re right. Me being here isn’t doing either of us a favour.”

“Are you sure I can’t lend you anything?”

John shook his head. “No. No. Absolutely not. It’s your money. You need it right now.”

“I have plenty to spare. You don’t - “

“Harry, drop it. I’m not accepting anything from you.” 

Two weeks later, Harry turned up on John’s doorstep, soaked through with the rain and explaining in a strained voice that she had left Clara for good, that they were both better off without each other. She stayed on his sofa while she looked for a place to live, then left her phone as a parting gift, on the table where he couldn’t refuse it.

~

Six months into civilian life, John was little better off than he was before. His blog remained pointless, utterly empty of anything interesting. His nightmares were consistent each night, leaving him hollowed out and barely holding back frustrated sobs, and nothing, absolutely nothing, was happening to him. 

And then John met Mike Stamford.

He brought him into St Bart’s, into lab room 2, to meet a potential flatmate. John wasn’t holding out too much hope - at best, he expected someone he’d never have to interact with, except for small talk at breakfast or about the occasional bill. At worst, a complete weirdo who collected Russian dolls or something like that. 

He looked around the lab with a half hearted chuckle. “Bit different from my day.” _Christ, I’m old._ Nowadays he felt nothing but old, as he watched army mates get married and walked around with his cane and saw the world turn and turn as he stood rooted to the ground. 

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” 

John’s head lifted up immediately at that voice - God, that voice. Could it be?

There he was, stooped over a microscope, dressed in an impeccable suit, curls ruffled carelessly and perfectly all at once, and John’s breath escaped from his lungs.

Violet eyes met turquoise, and all John could think, as he offered his phone was,

_Oh, here you are._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven years after their first meeting, John experiences being Sherlock's flatmate, and a case goes wrong, though not irreversibly so.

Being Sherlock Holmes' flatmate was the best, worst, most torturous, most exciting thing John had ever experienced.

In the seven months since John and Sherlock met that day at St Bart's, John had been on twenty-four cases, helped to discover no less than eight vital clues, earning eight appreciative, if slightly bewildered glances, and had shot one man dead. 

He couldn't bring himself to regret the last one. He didn't even hesitate to pull the trigger at the time, not when Sherlock was in imminent danger of swallowing that damn pill, for the sake of nothing but his pride.

It felt like Sherlock was always in imminent danger. 

And so they became integral to each others' routines, orbiting around each other in easy companionship around the flat, before dashing off to chase criminals down the streets of London, returning with their veins buzzing with adrenaline, eyes wide and bright, hearts beating wildly in their chests while their breaths come out in heavy pants. It satisfied Sherlock's constant need for mental stimulation, and John's addiction to danger. It also meant that John got to witness Sherlock's work first hand, his deductions having improved over time until they came out in a torrent, weaving a picture of a crime taking place, fixing John to his spot and leaving him unable to do anything except exclaim compliments. (John also came to discover that this time, Sherlock was always, without fail, surprised to hear someone appreciating his deductions, his confidence lost over seven years to the abuse heard from Scotland Yard's officers and judgemental clients. Perhaps Victor had had a hand in it too... This was best not to dwell on.) 

And John never had to travel back in time. Sherlock's intelligence and forethought meant that no matter what, the case was always solved: the murderer was apprehended, the kidnapping victim was rescued, and any danger they placed themselves in was easily dealt with. Besides which, John didn't want to risk losing what he already had,

And yet, it was absolute torture, because whenever Sherlock turned to look at him, to laugh breathlessly, his cheeks flushed from the cold air, John was instantly transported back to the night of their first meeting, when Sherlock had come off the dance floor with the same sated and flushed face as now. And then the memories of what came after came flooding back, of when they both came up for air, panting and grinning and high on a haze of hormones. It made John want to press him up against the nearest wall and tear the straining clothes off Sherlock, place his mouth over every part of him yet unexplored, touch him until they were both weak and boneless but happier than either of them have been in months. Sometimes, John could feel the same want radiating off Sherlock, could feel their circle of orbit becoming closer, closer... Instead, Sherlock would nod, wish him a good night, and retreat to his room to catch up on however much sleep he had missed out on while working the case.

Not to mention the small, everyday things: seeing Sherlock curled up on the sofa sleeping, his curls falling in front of his face, or accidentally walking in on him coming out of the shower in the shared bathroom, or when Sherlock would get up each morning, yawning and scratching the back of his head, undeniably human. 

John wondered often why it was they weren't together in this timeline. They got together that first night, after the club, with the promise of more the next morning - more meet-ups, more dinners, more nights in each other's company. Sherlock had given him his number, for Christ's sake.

In a way, John did get all those things now. But he supposed he was seven years too late for anything more than this strange limbo, a purgatory between friendship and love. They got together before John went to war, before his hair was bleached and greyed by years of sun and stress, before he returned with a limp and a scar and nightmares which, though had decreased in frequency, were no less intense than before.

At least now, whenever he woke up, Sherlock's violin was playing, sending him almost straight back to sleep with soothing melodies and notes, blending in with the white noise of distant London traffic. 

Besides, Sherlock had been very clear on the first night - married to his work, he said. As John had insisted - it was all fine. If Sherlock no longer wanted or was no longer in a relationship, that wasn't his fault. It just wasn't meant to be.

~

The case was given to them by Mycroft, whom John had met the same day that he went on his first case with Sherlock, and swiftly came to understand why Sherlock would assume that John was spying for him, or why Sherlock had referred to him as a 'pain in the arse'. The case involved a Russian diplomat, Yanovich, and his family, who were visiting England, and a tip-off that there would be an assassination attempt in the theatre that night, while he was there watching a production of Macbeth

"Why don't you just tell all your minions to deal with it? This is a three at best," Sherlock had complained, stretched out dramatically on the sofa in his pyjamas and dressing gown, with his feet hanging off the end.

"They lack your...subtlety," Mycroft replied, pausing at the last word as he cocked an eyebrow at the completely un-subtle way that Sherlock was glaring at him. "And remember, you still owe me a favour."

"How could I possibly owe you a favour? I've solved two cases for you in the last six months."

"Those weren't favours. Those were you employing your intellectual skills to solve what my 'minions' could not. If anything, you should be thanking me for giving your brain stimulus when you hadn't had a case in so long."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned so his back was facing Mycroft, while John suppressed a snigger at the sight. Mycroft then turned to John, obviously only reminded of his existence by the sound of the stifled chuckle. "John, do convince you, won't you? You've seen enough of the battlefield to know the damaging effects of war." At this, John's eyes hardened into a glare, but Mycroft continued nonetheless, "And believe me when I say that I do not exaggerate - the failure to solve this case will lead to war. And I would so hate seeing you enlisted -"

"Fine, I'll do it! I'll solve your stupid case. Now - " Sherlock leapt dramatically off the sofa and opened the door, his eyes burning a death glare into Mycroft's skull - "Leave John out of this and get out of my flat." Mycroft raised an eyebrow but rose out of his seat - Sherlock's seat - towards the door. "Do keep me regularly updated," he said calmly, before exiting the flat. Sherlock slammed the door behind him with no small amount of satisfaction before flopping back on the sofa again. 

John smiled to himself until eventually, he spoke. "You really hate the idea of me enlisting again, don't you."

Sherlock snorted. "What you do is of no concern of mine. I just didn't want to give Mycroft the satisfaction of letting himself think that he could tell you what to do."

"So...you let him tell you what to do."

"Of course not. I chose to take the case. Besides, I do rather like Macbeth."

John didn't respond, though his pleased smile grew.

Later that evening, John found himself in a waiting line with Sherlock, in his only decent suit - the brown one he wore normally on dates or on job interviews, on the rare occasion either of the two would occur - with Sherlock using the advantage of his height to keep an eye out for any sign of suspicious activity. A black car pulled up nearby, and two men in suits jumped out, skipped the queue (causing great amounts of tutting and grumbling) then silently took three tickets which were offered to them with a nod, before returning to the car. Sherlock rolled his eyes and murmured, "Honestly, it's like he's demanding to be assassinated."

"He was in the car, then?" John asked. "The diplomat?"

"Not so loud, John. But yes."

"I don't see why he can't just stay in his hotel room and not show up. Surely it won't be that hard spotting a confused looking assassin when their target doesn't show up."

The corner of Sherlock's lips twitched minutely. "The assassin could very well know if the target won't turn up long before the actual event. At least we control where the assassination is taking place - attempted assassination - by doing things as planned. Besides, he's been cooped up in his hotel room since he arrived here. Even he deserves a little bit of excitement every now and again?"

"Nearly getting shot in the head doesn't count as excitement," John muttered.

"Really? I could have sworn you thought otherwise."

John allowed himself a small smile. "Well, not everyone thinks that. And I'm willing to bet the diplomat is one of them."

"What a shame."

They reached the end of the line and asked for their tickets, booked under the name of Holmes. In return, they only got given one. 

"What? I'm sorry, there must be a mistake. We booked - "

"One. We booked one. Thank you ever so much." Sherlock flashed a false grin at the man who handed them the tickets, before ushering John away, his hand on his arm. When they were a safe distance away from other people, he turned to him and whispered quietly, "You're going to go in alone. Keep an eye on the audience."

"And what are you doing?"

"I'll be backstage, keeping an eye on the cast members."

"There's no way you could get backstage! There's security everywhere, and for all they know, you're a creepy stalker of one of the cast members."

"Don't worry about me, John. Just go in there, get in your seat, and keep an eye out for any disturbances. There are opera glasses you can get for a pound in there to help."

John snorted. Just when he thought he wasn't going to stick out as the uncultured plebeian. "Opera glasses. Jesus fucking Christ - "

"Relax, they're plastic and little better than children's binoculars. You're not going to stand out."

John shook his head. He could never quite get used to Sherlock reading his mind, even after all this time. "Right. Look, why don't you stay in the audience?"

"Because you'd stand out even more backstage."

"No, I won't. Military, remember? I'd just put on a black coat and act like a security guard. We've already been given the earpieces to fit the part."

"John."

"Oh, fine, I'll sit with the audience," he hissed. "But next time I'd better have something more interesting to do."

"I'll have you fighting crocodiles next time."

"Cheers. Look, I'd better go in now. Good luck."

Sherlock nodded in response, then walked away, to where John could only assume he was going backstage. John joined the flood of audience members and went to take his seat, towards the back, giving him a good view of everyone around him. In front of the stage, the orchestra sat in the pit, obscured from sight. He took the opportunity to look around, see if he could see anyone shifting in their seats, discreetly wiping the sweat off their brow, bearing a steely-eyed expression as they played the waiting game of when the best time to strike was. Unfortunately, John could see no one, except chatting couples and groups of friends and single Shakespeare fanatics. 

The lights went down and thunder cracked. The orchestra began to play with tense, tremolo violins while the witches chanted, huddled together in grey cloaks around a cauldron. John ignored what was going on onstage as he looked around at the audience, but everyone seemed rooted to their seats, transfixed on the play.

"Sherlock," he murmured over King Duncan's monologue, touching his earpiece, "any news?"

"None," came Sherlock' voice. "All cast members accounted for. No one suspicious backstage."

"Except you."

"Except me. You?"

"It's hard to get a good look around, with how many there are and how dark it is. I'll keep you posted."

"Me too. And for god's sake, don't touch your earpiece. We can hear each other just fine."

"Right. Sorry."

There the conversation ended. John looked around at the boxes above, and just out of the corner of his eye, to his right, he could see Yanovich leaning slightly over his private balcony, seemingly entirely unworried. John supposed that he had been given the assurance that Sherlock Holmes was working on his case, and had the utmost confidence in his abilities. Though John didn't doubt Sherlock's talents, there were many things Sherlock couldn't do, and stop a speeding bullet was not one of them.

Onstage, Macbeth was stabbing the sleeping Duncan in his bed, behind an opaque, white curtain, which was being sprayed with false blood. The orchestral music was tense, with a firm sforzando with every stab, one that was almost comical in its melodrama (John could practically see Harry rolling her eyes at the poor stagecraft in the back of his head). In the balcony on the right-hand side, John heard a thud and screams, which were quickly choked off, like someone had pressed paused. The rest of the audience went undisturbed, assuming that it was part of the melodrama or just an oversensitive spectator who was somehow unaware that there was going to be murder in Macbeth, but something in John's gut tensed up, knowing that something was very, very, wrong. He got up out of his seat, pushing his way between the chairs in front and the stretched out legs of other audience members, who were glaring at John for leaving at such a crucial scene, but John couldn't care less. When he was out in the foyer and on his way up the stairs to the balcony, he spoke into his earpiece.

"Sherlock, I heard screams. Is something going on?" 

"Most likely, yes. Hold on - " In his earpiece, John heard the sound of Sherlock opening a door and a small intake of breath. "John. Get up here."

John dashed up the stairs two at a time until he reached the corridor just outside the private balcony, where Sherlock was stood, frozen, staring at the seats in shock and anger and grief. "Sherlock, are you - oh, god." 

Slumped in their seats, was Yanovich, his wife, and his two children, each with a dart in their neck.

"Oh, god. Okay. We need to get them out of the way of the audience. Out here. And then we should call the - "

"He had his family with him," Sherlock whispered, his teeth clenched, and John's stomach twisted at the anger in his voice. "Children. What kind of half-witted, idiotic - "

"I know, Sherlock. I know. But we have to move the bodies." John entered the balcony, crouching so he was out of the view of the audience, and bringing out with him Yanovich first. Sherlock was on his phone, texting Mycroft, before going in and getting the other bodies, laying them on the floor beside Yanovich. Sherlock's face was unreadable, stoic, his eyes as calculating as always, though John could see that his hands were shaking.

"Are they dead?" Sherlock murmured, while John crouched on the ground next to them, checking their pulse. He nodded.

"Yeah. All four of them. They're lucky, though. It seems to me like it was a quick, painless death. Whoever did this, they left no potential for survival. Or witnesses." Except me, John thought to himself bitterly. He should have seen this. How could he have missed the darts flying towards them? It should have been as obvious as anything.

"Even if you did see it, there's nothing you could have done," Sherlock cut across his thoughts, his voice a low, comforting rumble. "We expected for the attack to occur backstage, hidden from view. Would have given us time to catch up with him. Not from the audience. Hiding in plain sight. Rather clever really." Sherlock exhaled shakily. Jon couldn't help but feel that this was for the benefit of Sherlock himself, not for comforting John. 

"So it did come from the audience?"

"Judging from the angle, yes. From near the front." 

A team of men in suits with guns in their hands came running into the hall, followed by Mycroft, who sighed and shook his head at the bodies, as though it was a puddle of spilt milk on the floor. "That's that, I suppose. We can handle it from here, gentlemen."

"Did you know?" Sherlock demanded, staring daggers at his brother. "Did you know his family would be there?"

Mycroft hesitated, choosing his words carefully, then replied, "I'm afraid I didn't foresee the possibility of such an outcome. I assumed he had the wits about him to not drag his family into such a dangerous situation. He was, after all, a very good politician, with very sound judgement."

"Not a good father or husband though, with any kind of common sense," Sherlock snapped. "You should have seen it. You should have known how they were all restless to leave wherever they were cooped up in, or so united they'd refuse to let him into a dangerous situation alone."

"Don't criticise me for not foreseeing events, when you two were the ones on guard and meant to prevent this kind of event from happening." The rise in Mycroft's voice only served to further aggravate Sherlock, who was clenching his fists together, while hot anger at the unfairness of the accusation boiled in John's stomach. "Now, seeing as the entire front row of the audience is a suspect, we'll have to figure out how to keep them in the theatre long enough for questioning."

"We could do that. We were there, we know what to look for - "

"I think you've done enough." Mycroft interrupted impatiently, rubbing circles on his forehead. (John could honestly say that this was the most emotional he'd ever seen Mycroft.) "Go home, you two. If we require statements, we'll come in the morning."

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but John tugged on his arm, looking up at him pleadingly, so sighed and nodded. They swiftly left the theatre, coming out just as the police were starting to arrive. 

The cab ride back to Baker Street was spent in silence, the air claustrophobic, Sherlock staring straight ahead with his knee jogging up and down. John tried to reach for the right words to say to comfort him. Sherlock may have prefered to pretend otherwise, but John knew that cases involving children tended to strike a nerve with him, making him work harder and faster to solve them, use softer voices when talking to them. It was always heart-wrenching to watch.

Sherlock slammed open the door to 221b and immediately stormed towards his room. John followed behind frustratedly. "Sherlock, wait - "

"It's fine, John. We'll cover it in the morning when Mycroft's men miss the obvious details." As he spat out those words, he slammed his bedroom door, with John stood in front of it. He knocked quietly.

"Do you - do you want to talk about it?"

Silence came in response. John continued nonetheless, speaking softly.

"I'm sorry the case didn't work out. That Yanovich guy was a bloody idiot to bring his family, but you mustn't use that as an excuse to be angry at yourself. Besides, if we solve the case, and hopefully it isn't an assassin who will actually cause World War Three or something, everything will sort itself out."

"It's not exactly going to bring those children back, is it?" A muffled voice came from outside the door. "I can think of seven possible ways this could have been prevented, and it's only now that I think of them. What's the point of having my intellect and capacity for observation when I'm not even going to use it? The timing was all wrong - "

John's eyes widened, an idea popping into his head. "Well, what if it wasn't?"

A pause. "What?"

He took a deep breath, suppressing all gut instincts and his father's disapproving voice in his head saying this was an awful, horrible, incredibly stupid idea. Generations of the family secret remaining hidden, and John was wanting to throw that tradition out of the window, and for what? To spare Sherlock's feelings. (Worth it.) "Say you got a chance to...redo it all. What would you do?"

"I don't know how your therapy goes, but normally thinking about hypothetical scenarios is not something most people advise."

"I know. Just...indulge me for a second, yeah? What would you do to solve this whole thing?"

There was a moment of silence, where Sherlock was considering an answer - or whether to answer at all. "Well, for starters I would make sure that Yanovich didn't bring his damn children along."

"Okay, and?"

"I...suppose that I would make sure more people were present looking out for disturbances, never mind Mycroft's insistence it would scare off the assassin before we could arrest them."

"Good. Good. Anything else?"

"Tighter security on audience members. Bags would have been checked, but no one thinks to check blazers, jackets, something with an inner pocket to hide the darts and dart blower in."

"And you're certain that that would prevent their deaths?"

"Of course. The angle of the darts shows that only people sitting in the front row would have been able to hit them. They were the people closest to the stage, other than the orchestra, of - oh." In his mind's eye, John could see the look on Sherlock's face, mouth open in realisation with his eyes almost comically wide. He allowed himself a small, proud smile.

"What? You only make that sound when you've solved something."

"Woodwind player in the orchestra. Would be able to hide the darts within the case or the instrument. At the right angle and with a particularly strong blow, a hidden dart would come out and hit Yanovich and his family, piercing the skin with poison. Yes. that's it." Sherlock burst out of his room, determinedly walking past John towards the door. "I have to get back to the theatre. There will be an interval soon, and If I get back before then we can - "

"Wait, slow down." John had to grab Sherlock's wrist to stop him from leaving. "I - I have another solution."

" _You_ have another solution?"

"Yes me. Why's that the part you're surprised at? Ugh, don't answer. Follow me." 

John led him up the stairs to his bedroom, his hand still around Sherlock's wrist and his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to come up with a way to explain time travel to someone whose world revolves so much around logic and reason and science, when he himself didn't really know how it worked. When they got up to John’s room, he turned to Sherlock, whose brows were creased in confusion. He took a deep breath, then spoke.

“Okay. So I’ve never done this with anyone before.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed further, his eyes flicking between John and the bed. “...Okay.”

“So don’t freak out if your arm accidentally gets ripped off or something.”

“I don’t think that could happen - “

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“I need you to get in my wardrobe with me.”

Sherlock blinked for a moment or two, processing the request. “What?”

“Get in my wardrobe with me. It’s difficult to explain. Please, just do it?” John opened the door and stepped inside himself. After pausing for a moment, considering his options, Sherlock, to John’s relief, stepped inside with him, shutting the door behind him. They were in complete darkness, then, pressed between the walls and each other. John ignored the tightness of his collar and the stifling, hot air that surrounded them.

“Okay. Now take my hands and shut your eyes.”

"First, I need you to explain why."

"I will, I promise. Just...not until after. Please?"

Sherlock complied, his hands tight around John's. "Right. Thank you. Now try not to freak out."

"John, what - "

John squeezed his eyes shut and immediately went back. Having travelled in time in this way for the last fifteen years of his life, he was used to the slight tumble, the feeling like you were doing a forward roll underwater, and the jolt back to earth, wearing different clothing and with the familiar sounds from the time before in his ear. Sherlock, not so much. John could see his wide eyes and pale skin by the light coming through the cracks of daylight - yes, daylight - in the door. He immediately stumbled out of the wardrobe, gasping for air as he doubles over.

"You alright there?" John asked as he stepped out, watching the (rather dramatic) display with a slightly amused smirk. "Need a bucket?"

"Fine," Sherlock rasped, standing up straight again. "What the bloody hell did you just do?"

"Well, I wouldn't have done it if I had known that Sherlock Holmes had such a sensitive stomach," He teased.

"Oh shut up."

"I'm guessing that means I'll have to get a refund for th tickets I bought to Alton Towers..."

"Again, shut up and answer the damn question."

"Honestly? I took us back in time."

"You fucking what?"

"Took us back in time. Or more specifically, nine hours ago."

It was at that point Sherlock finally took everything in - the daylight outside despite it being dark moments ago, John's plaid shirt and jeans that were once his brown suit, and Sherlock's suit now turned dressing gown and pyjamas. When he was done thinking, eliminating impossible scenarios and he realised that John as telling the truth, his mouth fell open as he stammered out, "that's impossible."

"It isn't."

"But physics - "

"Screw physics. I've been going backwards and forwards in time for years, and I haven't ripped a hole in the space-time continuum yet. I don't think." Sherlock didn't respond, except to sit down on the edge of John's bed, his hands steepled under his chin. John sighed. "Look, as much as I'd love to think about the scientific implications of my family's genetic ability to time travel, Mycroft should be arriving in half an hour."

Sherlock looked up then in understanding. "So that's why you've brought us back here? So we can solve the case and prevent the killings?"

"Yeah. That alright? We can go back if you want. Or forwards, rather. Can't be much fun preventing the murders your career relies on."

"No, no, it's - it's good. Although, I do have a lot of questions."

"I wouldn't expect you not to."

"I want them to be answered as soon as this case is over."

"Yes. Absolutely. As long as you promise to keep my ability a secret so I won't end up abducted and experimented on by government agents?"

"Of course. Right then." Sherlock stood up determinedly, though his legs were still somewhat unsteady from the shock. "Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to split what was going to be a super long chapter in two. Chapter 4 should hopefully be up soon!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case is resolved, and truths are revealed.

When Mycroft arrived for the second time with the details of the case, repeating everything word-for-word, it was now decided that they would go in as security, offering them an advantage over being trapped in a seat or backstage with a limited view. It was also decided that there would be at least ten more security guards, despite Mycroft's protests, and they would arrive early enough to check the orchestra's instruments. Sherlock insisted on doing this himself (and with John).

"As a musician myself, I know how to handle a variety of instruments delicately," Sherlock had argued. "And John is a doctor. He has steady hands. Your oafish bodyguards wouldn't know how to handle a slice of bread without breaking it."

"Yes, but you're yet to explain to me why you suspect the orchestra," Mycroft insisted. "They've all been security checked, along with other members of the cast and crew. They've all been part of the production for at least six months, and none of them has any known affiliation with any government, terrorist group or otherwise."

There was a pause, wherein, instinctively, John held his breath and waited for all to be revealed. Not that he didn't trust Sherlock - it was just that it had been ingrained in his mind for so long that people would spread this secret, use it for their own personal gain that he half expected exactly that to occur. Especially since this was the British government of all people in the room. But Sherlock simply shrugged. "Call it intuition. Also, the family are to stay at the hotel?"

"Of course. Though there have been some protests at keeping them locked away in safety, it has been promised to us that he will talk to his family and make them stay. Explain it's for their own good."

"Yes, because people have such a long history of always doing things for their own good," Sherlock replied snarkily. "See to it that they do stay. Take any precautions necessary. Blackmail the staff, if needs be"

~

When the orchestra arrived with their instruments, Sherlock instructed them to queue in an orderly fashion. "We're just checking for the quality of your instrument, how well you've been taking care of it, that kind of thing," he said, putting on his phoniest smile, baring his teeth, not quite reaching his eyes. "We need tonight's performance to be extra brilliant, and we just want to make sure there will be no bumps along the way."

"What's so important about this one?"

"We can do our own tuning, you know,"

"This is ridiculous."

One by one, the players joined in with the complaining, until the entire crowd of them were yelling about how disgraceful this was, what a waste of time this was, how they didn't turn down the Royal Albert Hall for this, until John sighed, then barked out, "Enough!" in his best Captain John Watson voice. The room immediately fell silent. John could feel Sherlock's gaze next to him, burning into his skull, but he ignored it for now. "Unless you want this performance to have no orchestra, and for you to have no pay for this gig, get in a line. Now."

They quickly shuffled themselves into a line, single-file, while John finally turned to look at Sherlock, who was smirking proudly. John shrugged modestly and grinned back, feeling the slight, addictive buzz of adrenaline that always came with pulling rank. 

The players went up to either John or Sherlock for their instrument to be checked. John, not being familiar with instruments, looked over and followed Sherlock's lead. He checked inside the instrument, around it, in each individual piece, as well as the case for any false bottoms or hidden compartments. He then made the player play a note of the instrument, loudly, in the guise of checking its tuning. Each time the note came out perfectly, without any sign of the darts from before. It got to the point where John started to doubt the purpose of this exercise and Sherlock's theory.

Soon, a flautist approached Sherlock, who went through all the routine inspections - inside, around, piece by piece, case, note. Sherlock made a triumphant noise as on the inside of one of the pieces of the flute, he picked out four small objects, like tiny feather dusters - the fuzzy end was bright green, just like the darts.

"What are these?" Sherlock asked, casually.

"Instrument cleaners," the flautist replied calmly, a practised excuse. John snorted as he watched the performance.

"And you need three of them?"

"Can never be too sure, can you?"

"No, indeed you can't." Sherlock turned the object over in his hand, observing it, then twisted he blunt end off like a pen lid, to reveal a sharp, metallic spike hidden underneath, dripping with poison. He raised an eyebrow at the flautist, who turned pale, then quickly turned and fled, pushing past the other players. John ran after him, pursuing up the stairs and into the empty foyer. The man didn't stop, running into the street outside, not caring about the confused stares of passers-by. Fortunately, the criminal classes were rarely so physically fit that John couldn't catch up with them. In the next alley he ran down, John tackled the man to the ground, pressing his knee into his lower back to keep him down and grabbing his wrists behind his back. 

"You're not the police. You have no authority to do this!" The man yelled. "I have my rights you know."

"Not a wise thing to say to an ex-army captain who is currently in the perfect position to sprain your arms," John replies, tightening his grip to prove his point, making the man cry out. 

"Thank you, sir, we'll take it from here." Behind him, the guards and Sherlock stood there, the former taking the culprit and handcuffing him, the latter simply staring at John intensely, darkly, making his cheeks heat up as he refused to look away. The main guard cleared his throat, forcing them to tear their gaze away from each other and focus on the situation at hand. _Right. Potential assassin. Of course._ "Thank you, gentlemen. Mr Yanovich passes on his thanks for protecting him and his family."

"It's nothing, really," John replied.

"In return, Mr Yanovich has given you two tickets to tonight's performance, should you choose to accept payment."

John glanced over at Sherlock, who shook his head at him minutely. He turned back to the guard with a warm smile. "That's very generous of him, but payment is absolutely not necessary. We probably should be going now, actually."

"Of course. You must be very busy." The guard shook hands with both of them. "I'm a big fan of the blog. Speaking of which, my employer has requested that this case is not publicised."

"Absolutely. I understand."

The guard nodded and smiled, then walked away, leaving John and Sherlock alone in the alley. 

"I still have questions, you know," Sherlock said. 

"Well, I'm sure if you asked, they'd let you tag along in that guy's interrogation - "

"I wasn't talking about the case." John's mouth fell open in a small 'oh' of understanding, and Sherlock nodded. "Yes, so I'm afraid you're going to have to delay your usual post-case cup of tea and candle-lit bath."

John breathed out a resigned sigh. "Okay. Fine. We'll go back to the flat and you can ask away. I can't promise I'll answer all of them, though."

"That's fair enough."

"I'm still allowed tea during the interrogation, right?"

"Of course. But you'll have to compromise on remaining fully clothed and in your chair, for a little while."

"I think I can manage that."

~

When they got back to the flat and John had made both of them tea, Sherlock immediately sat him down in his chair then retreated to his own. He crossed one leg over the other and steepled his hands over his lips, deep in thought as he stared at John, blue gaze intense. John shuffled awkwardly in his seat, suddenly very sympathetic to clients who had previously sat in this very spot, scrutinised and observed, nothing kept hidden.

“So.”

“So.”

“You time travel.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Runs in the family. Father to son. Y chromosome.”

“So Harry can’t time travel.”

“No. She doesn’t even know. No one does outside of the family. And you.”

“Yes.” Sherlock leaned back in his chair with a small smile, satisfied by this conclusion. "And me. So why break this tradition then and risk whatever dire consequences face a Watson who betrays his family - "

"I think it's more to do with Watsons being lazy bastards not wanting to help people with their problems than anything," John chuckled half-heartedly. "But I - I saw how distraught you were when you saw those kids. And I was distraught too. They didn't have to die. So, I decided to let you help me prevent their deaths."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "Let me?"

"Fine. I needed you to help me. You have the intelligence and foresight. I just sort of... keep going back, guns blazing, and hope for the best."

"So what else have you used it for?" Sometimes, Sherlock reminded John of a child at Christmas, eager and bright-eyed and constantly asking questions.

"Undid embarrassing situations, mostly. Got my sister out of a couple of scrapes. Used it for the occasional date. Time travel is great for practising pick up lines."

Sherlock scoffed, “Yes, I saw at Angelos the wonders of being well-practised at hitting on people."

"Now, hold on, I wasn't - "

"Please, you completely were. Unless you happen to just be curious about the relationship status of every person you meet, then point out how you're both single and how _good_ that is - "

"Yes, alright, I get it."

Sherlock smirked triumphantly, while John flushed red. His attempt at flirting to recover what they had had the first time they met didn’t go well, ending in a rushed backpedal to save them from any future awkwardness. "So why didn't you undo that?"

"Our conversation at Angelos? It's hardly worth undoing, is it?"

"You seemed rather embarrassed about it at the end."

"Yeah, well then we chased a suspect across London and it was okay by the end. Besides, it gave us something to talk about while we waited." 

"I suppose so. So you've never used it for a case before?"

"No. You've always solved it. You like the puzzle. I think if I went back and held your hand through everything you'd just end up hating me."

"I hardly think that's possible. But surely you've wanted to go back and undo most of those deaths?"

"I have wanted to. Some of the cases have been preventable. But there's only so much I can do on my own, isn't there? And,” John chuckled lightly, “I would be depriving you of your cases. I don't really want to do that to you and leave you in a sulk until the next one comes along."

Sherlock frowned in confusion and shook his head with a small smile. "You are a strange man, John Watson, with a strange moral compass."

John snorted. "This coming from the man who beats up corpses?"

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Irrelevant. You are a doctor who went to war to save lives, you revealed your most hidden secret to me for no reason other to save the lives of a couple of children. You are one of the few people I've met who tolerate my deductions, and you have done since the very beginning. you make me eat and sleep when I forget to and take care of my wellbeing. You let me do experiments in the kitchen - yes, I know, as long as it stays away from anything edible. You flirted with me within 24 hours of meeting me, and immediately retracted it when you were rejected, without pushing further for a positive answer. You then shot a man to save my life. And to top this all off, you can time travel. So yes, I'd say you are rather strange. In fact," Sherlock's smile grew, eyes bright. It took John's breath away. "I'd say you were a puzzle."

There was a moment of silence, as John took in what Sherlock said, his heart beating hopefully in his chest. “And that’s a good thing, right? You like puzzles.”

Sherlock grinned. “Oh, I adore them.”

The next minute, Sherlock was out of his chair, kneeling in front of John’s and kissing him. It was little more than a closed-mouth press of lips, one that lasted mere seconds, but John was still stunned by it, his lips tingling when they broke apart as he stared at Sherlock, who was equally staring back, challenging him to speak.

John cleared his throat. “So. That was...interesting.”

“Says the time traveller,” Sherlock remarked with a small smile. “But yes. Interesting.”

“Do you want to talk about this?” 

“We’ve done nothing but talk since we got here. Can you just take my word for it that I’ve wanted to do that for quite some time and the fact that you’ve kept remarkable abilities successfully hidden from me has only augmented my attraction to you, so we can get to the more interesting part?”

“...Yeah, Alright," John said, then bowed his head so his lips met Sherlock's again, who then pulled him even closer as he wrapped his arm around his neck, humming in approval. John's fingers were weaved through Sherlock's hair, his tongue pressing tentatively against the seam of Sherlock's lips. It was then that the kisses deepened, grew more heated, as Sherlock climbed onto the chair too, knees planted either side of John's thighs. John sighed as he reacquainted himself with Sherlock's mouth, those cupid-bow lips pressed against his own, the deep, rumbling hums and sighs which had not changed, not in the slightest, since the last time - 

John broke away, panting as he tried to regain control over himself, calm down enough to think clearly without the fog of relief and affection and arousal. "Wait, wait, wait. Before we go into - any of this. There's something else you should probably know."

Sherlock sighed. "Oh, Jesus Christ, another secret? It's starting to lose its shock value, you know."

John chuckled slightly. "Trust me, you should probably hear this one. You know how I said that I sometimes used my abilities for dating purposes?"

"Yes."

"Well, seven years ago, I used it to get a date with you."

Sherlock's smile fell. "What?"

"We met at a bar, started talking. You were celebrating three months of sobriety. I was meant to be out with a friend, but he managed to pull someone and left me. The first time we spoke I completely insulted you and had to go back to re-do the whole thing. The second time I was more successful. We went out to dinner - to Angelo's, actually, soon after you helped him with his case. We ate, I walked you home, then we.... spent the night together. I just - thought you should know."

"I see. And you undid this?" The confusion and shock on Sherlock's face had now turned into nervousness, hurt. 

"Yes. I didn't want to, though," he said quickly. "It was a brilliant night. Really. We even exchanged numbers afterwards so we could meet again. It's just that I had to go back for Harry. Her play was on that night, and it went poorly because of the actors' inability to learn their lines and the props being in the wrong place. I sorted it out, helped her get good critical reviews, and tried to leave in time to meet you at the bar again and do the whole thing over, but by the time I got there, you had gone home with someone else."

Sherlock's face was a blank, unreadable. Like he didn't know how he was supposed to respond. John went on, "I wanted to meet you again, you know. I tried. I went back to the same bar a couple of times. And I also started a new jogging route - right near where you were living. It was stupid, I know, but I was hoping we'd - bump into each other, maybe? A kind of meet-cute. It got out of hand, to the point where when we did meet, you assumed I was spying on you for your brother, threatened me, so I undid it to make sure I wouldn't get arrested for stalking."

"I was with - well, I had a boyfriend at the time. It wouldn't have worked out."

"Yeah. I met him, you know. Victor." Sherlock's features darkened at the mention of that name. "Turned up right after you threatened me. He seemed like bad news, and you seemed - well, it had probably been a while since you had last celebrated being sober, let's put it that way. But I couldn't undo you two meeting without compromising my sister's success. So once I undid everything, I just...posted leaflets through your door and hoped you'd take it as a sign from above to go to rehab."

"That was you?!"

"Yeah."

"I thought that was Mycroft's doing. All that ended up happening was I continued my addiction and relationship with Victor out of spite."

John grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fuck."

"Yeah," Sherlock chuckled weakly. "But I appreciate the thought."

"Are you - are you alright with everything I've just said? It's not made you change your mind about this, has it?"

"No. Everything I said before is still true. I'm deeply infatuated with you, you are with me. And right now, I'm literally sat on your lap, and making no effort to move. I imagine if I think about things a lot later I may start to feel regret about what might have been and how much could have been prevented, but right now the only spite I'm feeling is how you got to experience our first time before I did." John grinned with relief, while Sherlock smiled back, uncharacteristically shyly. "So, want to try it again?"

"Oh, god yes."

The mugs of tea were left abandoned beside the armchairs, undrunk and turning cold.  
~

"So, do you have regrets about what might have been?" John asked as he stroked his thumb over Sherlock's bare arm. The other man in question was collapsed on top of John, his nose nuzzled into the crook of John's neck. His breathing had grown steadier now, verging on sleepy.

Sherlock snorted. "Your pillow talk leaves rather a lot to be desired, John."

"I'm being serious. If you could undo anything, would you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "You've made me watch too many terrible sci-fi films for me to not come to the conclusion that if we went back all those years and reversed our decisions - if I didn't go to the bar to meet victor, if you didn't help your sister, if I had gone to rehab earlier, if you had not enlisted in the armies - something awful would replace it instead. Things are fine as they are now."

"That's easy for you to say. You're not the one crushed by someone lying on top of them. Budge up a bit so I can breathe, yeah?"

Sherlock groaned in protest but rolled over onto the bit of mattress next to him, lying on his side and facing John, a pink blush high on his cheeks from exertion. He looked younger, and John fancied he could see a kind of glow on him. “You know, if I hadn't strolled up to a crime scene high as a kite one day, I wouldn't have met Lestrade or become a consulting detective. And if I didn't go to rehab, I wouldn't have improved on my deduction skills so quickly to cope with the boredom."

"And if I hadn't helped my sister she may have ended up worse off than she is now. And I can't bring myself to regret the army."

"Even with the nightmares and getting shot?" Sherlock's hand moved to touch John's scar, gently touching the damaged skin there, impossibly delicate.

"I saved lives, remember. There's no way I could regret that."

"That's true. And the skills you've picked up in the army have been invaluable to me and the work."

John’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You just like watching me pull rank, don't you."

"A bit, yes."

John smiled quietly to himself, then continued. "Besides, as cliche as it sounds, if I didn't get shot and discharged with a shitty pension, I wouldn't have found my way back to you."

"Ugh. How disgustingly romantic of you." Sherlock turned away from John in a dramatic display of disapproval, while John grinned and pressed himself closer, his chest against Sherlock's back, an arm flung over his waist.

"I can't say I disagree with you there." He settled down against the pillow. "You know, it is a shame that they won't let me write about this on the blog. The case, that is."

"How so?"

"I've thought of lots of great titles for it."

Sherlock immediately tensed up. "Oh, god."

"The perfect blend of theatre and Shakespeare references with Russian terms."

"Is this what you've been thinking about while having sex with me?"

John continued, ignoring Sherlock’s complaints. "'The show Moscow on' for example..."

"Awful."

"'To thine own Slav be true'."

"Worse."

"'The fault is not within our tsars', perhaps?"

"Russia doesn't even have tsars anymore."

"Let slip the darts of war?"

"What do darts have to do with Russia?"

"Well, it's to do with the case, isn't it?"

"Ugh, you're unbearable. I'm very tempted to smother you with this pillow right now."

"Right. Got you. No more puns for the rest of the night." There was a pause, only the sounds of their synchronised breathing and the traffic outside, until John grinned mischievously and suggested, "My Kremlin for a horse?"

"Oh, that's it. - " Sherlock turned over and pushed John onto his back, causing him to yell out in surprise. Sherlock straddled his waist and grabbed his wrists, pinning them to the pillow, either side of his head, while John was still cackling all the while. "Now. Are you going to shut up with those damn blog titles?"

"I don't know. Are you going to make me?" John challenged, raising an eyebrow cheekily and purposefully rolling his hips up to meet Sherlock's, who then bit back a noise at the back of his throat. 

"Don't tempt me, or I just might."

"And if I want you to?"

"Then I'm sure we can reach a compromise somewhere."

Their lips met half-way, and that's when John knew, with confidence, that he was finally in the right timeline, without the need to go back for any changes. 

All seemed right in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Check out my tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/221carnationsonthewall)


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